


Marvel, Multiform

by roughmagic



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Humor, Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Multi, One Shot Collection, Other, Reader-Insert, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-01 01:56:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6496312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roughmagic/pseuds/roughmagic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Ah, but I don’t blame you; I’ll never burn as brilliantly as you. It’s only fair that I should be the one to chase you across ten, twenty-five, a hundred lifetimes until I find the one where you’ll return to me."<br/>-25 Lives by Tongari</p><p>[Gender neutral] Reader/Various</p><p>Done for Straw's "Another 100 Word Challenge!" Characters, genres, warnings will be added as chapters are updated, rating subject to change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Who, Me? (Tony Stark)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a cross-posting of some work that did on another site-- formerly called 'Avengers, Assorted,' it's expanding to cover even more of the Marvel franchise, because I can't keep all my irons in one fire, and I'm expecting my entire body to collapse in on itself like a dying star at the upcoming Civil War/Age of Apocalypse double header.

In the back of a pickup truck with rusting paint against your shoulders and Tony Stark across from you with a plastic milk carton of Georgia peaches in the middle wasn’t really where you had pictured yourself when you’d taken your vacation days and fled town, but that’s what the escape had been all about anyway. Going into the unknown. Rich and unexplored sensory territories. Feeling the sun and wind. Trying not to laugh at how long it had taken the two of you to wrestle his suit into the bed of the pickup, and the way it sat beside him now like a silent, stiff friend. 

To be fair, he probably hadn’t expected to be in this position either, but that was what happened when your fancy prototype fails in a long-haul aquatic test performance. That’s how he put it, anyway, after the suit had been successfully fished out of the bay and loaded into the back of your cousin’s ancient truck. Something about a rebreather system working just fine in the swim from New York to Florida but an unexpected shift in the consistency of the native salinity had overwhelmed the automatic calibrations— it had broke, and he was embarrassed about it, but not too proud to call an old schoolmate to come give him a ride to Miami. 

How he had known that’s where you’d been more or less hiding for the last month wasn’t really something you wanted to consider, because it either meant the star of your graduating class at MIT kept tabs on you, or everyone with an interest in engineering knew that the lead designer of an ambitious global communications company had a meltdown and ran away to the everglades to cry in peace. 

Still, if he wasn’t going to mention it, you weren’t going to bring it up. This could just be a normal, leisurely drive in a truck that sounded like shifting gears would snap it in half, with a superweapon sitting casually across from you. At least the drive was slow enough that you didn’t have to shout to talk. 

You scoot the carton of peaches towards him with your foot like a peace offering. “I’m sorry your rebreather thing isn’t working right.” 

“Don’t be, it’s just a matter of time before I crack it.” He turns his face into the hot breeze and you wonder where he got the sunglasses, or if he just grew a pair when exposed to enough sunlight. “And it’s not like there’s anything going on in the ocean that can’t be handled by, say, the Coast Guard, or a pack of particularly motivated Girl Scouts.” 

“Still, seems like you don’t really have a lot of that. Time, I mean.” 

He certainly takes his time selecting a peach. “Got nothing but. Why else would I be traveling in the back of a pickup that’s older than I am? I could walk faster than this thing.” 

“It can be good to slow down sometimes. Just spend some time admiring the scenery.” You prop your chin up with a hand and smile half to yourself, another hand gesturing to the somewhat rural highway that was currently taking its time depositing you closer to Miami. 

Tony stares at you. “Is that what you’re doing? What you’re doing down here. What you were doing.” 

You decide not to question the weird half-stumbling backtrack for his ego’s sake. “Kind of. I needed a temporary change of pace.” 

He considers that for a moment, turning the peach around like its got something to do with the conversation. “One of your satellites was at the Expo. You’ve come a long way since MIT.” 

“Says Tony Stark,” you snort, managing to ignore the compliment. 

“Why were we not friends back then, remind me?” He adjusts his sitting posture and you suddenly wish he’d go back to sulking about his machine not working. 

“Because we were both very young jerks.” 

“Sounds about right.” He raises a peach in a toast. “To growing up into older jerks.” 

“Says _Iron Man_.” Your peach doesn’t make it to meet his, and you’re not sure why you’ve let yourself start to feel so down in the dumps. 

“No, don’t let the whole super hero thing fool you. Now I just have a larger circle of friends to attest to how incorrigible I am.” 

You smile as you bite into your peach and regret it as juice gets everywhere, although it does give you a moment to wipe your face before you have to speak again. “I don’t buy it. A real jerk would’ve called or bought a private plane to take him and his broken toy home instead of doing the normal thing and asking for a ride.” 

“I need _someone_ to pick leeches off me,” he says, making a face like it should’ve been obvious, and it gets a grin out of you. 

“You landed in salt water, city slicker.” 

He doesn’t let the pleasantness last too long, going in for the kill in that direct way he has. “Why did you refuse the offer Stark Industries gave you after the Expo?” 

That takes the wind out of your sails fast, and you hope it doesn’t show too much on your face. Buying time with a big bite of peach doesn’t help, because the ride is long and he has the implacable patience of someone who wants an honest answer. You pick at the frayed hole in the knee of your jeans. “Because I didn’t get it.” 

Tony’s face gets stormy in the way that seems more like a squall. “I specifically asked Pepper to—" 

“I don’t doubt that it got sent out, but the company… vets my mail.” You stare at the bed of the truck, blue paint washed out to an eggshell color from sun and age. Thinking of that glass and steel prison in the middle of the desert makes the sun too hot and the wind feel like slaps in the face. 

He takes a bite of his own peach and talks around it, feigning casualness. “That’s definitely a crime. I’m not a lawyer, but I know that’s probably like, five different kinds of illegal.” 

“Yeah, but they kind of own me.” 

“Quit.” He says it like a challenge, and it’s so like the young, incredibly naive Tony that you used to know that it makes you smile, in spite of how terrible and stupid you’re starting to feel. 

Explaining it to other people has gotten easier, at least. “I’m on a contract. If I quit, they take my housing, my research grants, patents, everything.” 

“You’re too smart to sign over that much,” he snaps, sounding offended on your behalf. 

“I was homeless for three months after college, Tony.” Some steel makes it into your voice, as much as you had meant to be gentle about it. He blinks and keeps his face carefully the same, which stings almost as much as if he’d been openly shocked. “It changes how you feel about things. The reality is that I’m stuck there, even if… anyway. I’m stuck there. I’ll live with it.” 

The wind and the hum of insects gets louder when he doesn’t immediately answer, and you find yourself calculating the exact dangerousness of leaping out of the truck at this speed. You’d definitely live. 

“I’ll buy out your contract. I’ll buy the company.” 

You look up at him, startled and suddenly scared by how much hope that had stirred up in your guts. The reality of the money and effort comes crashing in shortly after. “Tony—" 

“Nope. It’s decided. They’re wasting your talent and God knows what else, so.” He shrugs, picking idly at the exposed pit of the peach. “First order of business when I’m back in New York. Pepper’s going to love it, she’s always getting after me about… scouting acquisitions.” 

You have no idea if he realizes how much this means to you, and you know right now isn’t the time or place to tell him, but even if he backed out now it would still mean the world to you. “You don’t have to.” 

“I want to,” he says, simply. “There is a condition, though, I’ll need you to move to New York. Gonna need you close at hand so I can constantly ask you out and not have that far to walk home in the rain when you inevitably rebuff me.” 

There’s a lot to process in that condition, so you go with the first thing that your brain balks at. “Inevitably?” 

Tony frowns. “It was all you did in college.” 

“You never asked me out in college,” your mouth says, despite the rest of you thinking that you should probably be following up on that job offer. 

“Yes, I did, _multiple_ times!” His ‘mortally offended’ expression hasn’t changed, even down to the tone of voice. 

“I thought you were making fun of me!” 

“I made you a mix tape!” he cries, leaning forward, before aggressively leaning back and pointing at you. “That’s going into your performance review. First thing on the list. ‘Communication skills need improvement.’” 

You laugh, and once you start it’s hard to stop, and there’s real, vivid relief at feeling yourself laugh again. There’s a weight gone from your shoulders and back that you had stopped paying attention to for too long, and it feels like you’ve opened back up to a bright blue sky. 

When you can stop laughing, you glance back at Tony and have to look away quickly again, embarrassed by the fond look he has. You smooth your hair back from where the wind has blown it into chaos. “… Do you still have the mix tape?” 

He gets sullen immediately. “Yes.” 

“Can I have it?” 

_“No.”_

“Please?” 

“Fine, but I’m taking the rest of the peaches.” 

“Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony's a joy to write! Up next is Thor. Thanks for reading! :)


	2. Formal Wear (Thor)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just what it says on the tin, some nice comfort-heavy Reader/Thor. Vague allusions to depression/anxiety/brain probs, but nothing explicit. Some times it's just hard to get out of bed!

An hour ago, you looked at your phone and then put it back on the nightstand and promised that you would get ready in half an hour. 

A half hour ago, you looked at your phone and thought about all that would entail getting ready, decided you didn’t have enough time to get ready, and that it would probably just be better to stay in bed. 

And after a day of swearing up and down that you were not going to let yourself wimp out of going a charity gala of all things, it feels like a defeat. One defeat on top of a pile of defeats. One too many. 

So you curl up under your blankets and check your phone periodically, just to make sure that time is moving forward and further cementing how badly you’ve messed up this day, and what was supposed to be a nice date out. 

Thunder rumbles at some point and you hear your unlocked patio doors open slowly, and shut deliberately noisily. Thor goes out of his way to make sure you know when he comes and goes, after a few startled evenings and an incident with your alarm system. 

At the sound of his knock on your bedroom door, you just pull the covers over your head and hope for something indistinct. It’s not much use trying to hide from him, although he does call your name before he opens the door, and it sends your toes curling in discomfort. He sounds concerned. 

The bed sinks tremendously as he sits on the edge and pulls back the covers, and it’s all you can do not to try and drag them back up, or hide behind your hands. What you want or what you think you should want is a muddled up mess, but you do know you’ve never wanted him to see you like this. You should’ve gotten ready an hour ago and just _gone_. 

Thor studies your face, and you weakly try to start things off on the right foot. “Your tux looks nice.” And it really does. 

Normally that would get a smile out of him, at the very least, but tonight he just looks a bit lost. “Something troubles you.” 

You pull your legs closer to your chest and gently pull the covers over your shoulder again. “I think I’m going to stay home tonight.” 

“Are you ill?” he asks, definitely looking concerned, and you appreciate that he doesn’t follow it up with a reminder of how fragile Midgardian physiology can be. 

“Not physically.” 

He casts around for something else, as if the object of your distress might be found lingering in a corner. Fittingly enough, he pretty much does, staring for a moment at the clothes you’d hung up in front of your closet. “You’ve acquired beautiful formal wear and… painful looking shoes. I heard you remark to Lady Potts that you were excited about the event tonight.” 

You did buy formal stuff and really painful shoes, and you had been very excited to have been invited to the charity event, but that had been before work had closed in on you like a tomb sealing up, before your sleep habits had you waking up tired and before food stopped tasting good. “I guess I just changed my mind.” 

“You _can_ be willful,” he says, with a fondness that drags a smile out of you, even as bad as you feel. 

“I’m sorry. You’re still going, aren’t you?” 

“I was under the impression I was going as your ‘plus one.’” 

“You’re an Avenger, I’m _your_ ‘plus one.’” 

“On the contrary,” Thor says, looking disgruntled and shifting his weight around on the bed. “The gala tonight is a charity event, and I possess no Midgardian currency. Surely you remember our restaurant fiasco.” 

You sit up, although the rest of you just feels like sinking even farther into the mattress, preferably into the floor. “I don’t want you to miss out on it because I’m in a slump. Your time here isn’t unlimited, you should spend it with your friends.” 

“Which I will be doing when I stay home with you.” He says it as decisively as possible, already starting to tug at his bow-tie but stopping as he sees your face. “Unless you would prefer to be alone?” 

You shake your head and an old shame sweeps over you like a heavy tide. The last thing you wanted to do was anchor him here, but at the same time the idea of laying alone in bed, miserable— you’d been down that road before and it never led anywhere you wanted to visit again. 

Thor reaches out and puts a big palm against your cheek, and you let your eyes close at the warmth. “Has something happened?” 

He sounds so honestly worried, and it’s awful. You don’t want him to worried, you don’t want yourself to be doing anything worrying, but you don’t know how to remedy any of it. “No. That’s the worst part, it’s nothing. I just feel terrible, and I can’t shake myself out of it.” 

“Then perhaps shaking isn’t the answer.” He tilts your head down just a bit so he can kiss the top of it, before patting your face and getting up, pulling the bow tie free all the way. 

Not really sure what to do, you shove the pillows around and sit up halfway, watching as he leaves the bedroom to go to the living room, undoing his shoes and shedding other parts of his formal wear in the process. 

“Tony?” Your ears perk up and you don’t even try not to listen to his phone conversation. “Yes, we won’t be attending. … Because we don’t feel like it. … Of course charity is a worthy cause. Am I not issued a salary? Take a generous share from that. … Do you mean to tell me I defend your world for free?” 

You glance at your phone again almost instinctively, and then decide to shut it off. 

“It was a jest, my friend. Give my regards to the Lady Potts.” 

When he returns, you try not to stare at the fact that he can look just as dashing in plain boxers and an undershirt as he can in a tuxedo. Must be an Asgardian thing. Maybe an Avengers prerequisite. It makes you a little unsure what to do, although Thor seems right at home as he climbs into bed beside you, presenting you with one of many hair ties he’d spirited away from Natasha. “Bun, please.” 

“You can do this yourself,” you say, although it’s far from a protest as you lean forward to help him with it. 

“You do it better.” 

You let yourself smile about that as you pull his hair back. It’s getting longer than normal, although you have no idea what Asgardian standards are for that. 

When you’re finished, you let your hands drift down to the broad expanse of his back, followed shortly by your face. Resting against him is beyond pleasant, although it hammers home just how much you want to depend on him. When faced with a beautiful demigod from a planet of beautiful demigods, your first impulse had been to bottle up everything that wasn’t the best parts of you. Your hands curl into the slack of his shirt, although there isn’t much. It had been a shitty plan and you knew it from the start. 

“Do you worry I will lose interest in you if what you need out of our partnership changes?” Thor asks, softly. 

“Among about a hundred other fears, yes.” You squeeze your eyes shut, and how liberating that should be to admit just feels scary. “That is kind of a large one.” 

His silence thoughtful, and it shows when he speaks, slowly and gently. “I feel it would be insulting to tell you simply not to worry. If you could stop so easily, then you would.” Turning back around, Thor slips his arm around your shoulder and brings you in to lean against his chest. “But I have no intent to leave your side, even if we never attend another party.” 

You want to say _Thank you_ around the lump in your throat, or a _You don’t know how much that means to me,_ but nothing is coming out. There’s just him, and his steady heartbeat setting the pace for yours. 

He rests his chin on the top of your head. “You will find your feet again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up is Sam. Thanks for reading! :)


	3. Definitely Maybe (Sam Wilson) [pt.1]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The other day I was walking home and someone called 'On your left!' It was a lady jogging with a stroller, but for a moment, I was living the dream. I've never seen a baby go that fast, in any case. 
> 
> Warning for the reader being drunk/talk of alcohol use in a less than healthy way.

You’re right on the boundary between having drunk not enough, and just enough. Any giggling had worn off on the long cab ride there, and now you were convincing yourself that Sam didn’t know you had been trying and failing to stay out the whole night. That was ridiculous, though, Sam is smart enough to tell and even kinder because he’s not making a big deal out of it. Sometimes friends showed up a little buzzed late at night. It happens. 

Maybe, you think, as you help him do dishes and complain about the pollen count, he actually doesn’t know you’re buzzed. Maybe the way you smell is only apparent to you, and the way your words are a little looser and you move a bit slower. You’d been tired and you hadn’t wanted to sleep. You didn’t want to go home. Did you need to explain why you went out, to anyone? To yourself? Couldn’t you just go out and have fun? 

“I didn’t have fun at _all_ ,” you mutter, taking a step back to lean over and rest your forehead on the countertop. That didn’t do any favors for your equilibrium. 

“I’m assuming you don’t mean washing dishes,” Sam sighs, toweling your hands off for you in a businesslike manner that kicks through your last desire to pretend you aren’t having a bad time. 

“Sam, why do people go drinking on week days when they don’t even like tequila?” You hear yourself say it, and then frown. A thought or two had got spliced together. 

He stops. “Are we talking about people, or are we talking about you?” 

You stare at your feet, and you wish you could bring yourself to look at him, properly. You’ve been having a harder time of it lately, if you’re honest with yourself. You don’t even know why, it just feels like staring at the sun. Something in your chest aches and the rest of you feels ashamed. 

Now you had drunkenly bothering him to actually justify feeling bad. You straighten up and keep a hand on the countertop to steady yourself as you make a beeline for the door. “Okay. I’m gonna catch a cab home.” 

“Easy.” He claps a hand on your shoulder, light enough to be shrugged off but firm enough to get you to stop. “How about you stay the night here?” 

“I don’t want to be…” _Your gross drunk pathetic friend._ “I don’t want to put you out.” 

“If it were a bother, I wouldn’t have offered.” 

You fret about it for a moment longer, before slipping your shoes off. “Can I sleep on the couch?” 

“Yeah.” Sam smiles, heading towards the house’s linen closet. “If you notice a large patriotic dip in the middle, that’s where Steve always crashes.” 

You tentatively take a seat on the couch, but it doesn’t collapse underneath you from Captain America-induced strain. “Does he stay here a lot?” Somehow, that’s a really comforting idea. 

“More than you might think.” His voice bounces around the corner back to you as he rustles through some sheets and comforters. “The big guy gets lonely, believe it or not. Once the Tower’s finished and he can just take an elevator to bother Tony, I think he’ll settle down.” Returning, he’s got a spare pillow and soft blanket under one arm. 

“Are you going to move there too?” You congratulate yourself on managing to sound extremely casual. 

“I hadn’t decided yet. The rent’s gotta be better there.” He drops a small traveling case with miniature toiletries in your lap and gently whaps you with the pillow to get you up. “Go brush your teeth.” 

“Okay.” 

You watch yourself in the mirror, and under unfamiliar fluorescent lights you look different, somehow. Tired, for sure, and the summer air has not been kind to your hair, but you’re just not entirely happy with yourself. You can remember when you were, or when you were busy enough not to think about it, or at least busy enough to ignore it, or something. You had been different. 

For one thing, you hadn’t imposed on good friends like Sam. You brush your teeth and keep your eyes focused on the drain. At least your bare feet on the cold tile seems to have cooled down how hot you were starting to feel. Like there was something boiling at your center. _I hope I don’t puke on his couch._

Sam doesn’t seem worried about that, at least, and hands you a tall glass of water when you’re back in the living room. “Drink as much as you can before you pass out, alright? Future you will appreciate it.” 

You take it and sit down on the couch again, a pillow at one end and a blanket unfolded along the length of it. “This is backsliding, for me.” You say it before you can make yourself shut up, although it sounds stupid and weak in the open air. “And I think it’s important that I acknowledge that, and I know you have your own stuff going on and I don’t expect to take priority, but I think… that I should just… let someone know something’s off, or… something.” 

“Nobody’s recovery path is straight up.” Sam sits down next to you on the couch, his hand sliding from your shoulder to the small of your back. “If I was in your position, you’d say the same thing. Give yourself the benefit of patience and kindness that you give everyone else.” 

He’s right, and you know he is, but somehow that just makes you feel worse. “I’m sorry, man, I didn’t— I don’t mean to… _impose_ —" 

“C’mon, you know better than to apologize for this. No one who knows you wants you to pretend you’re alright if you need help.” He pauses, and his hand pulls away from your back and you clench your teeth together to keep quiet. “Anyway, if you want to talk about imposing, I’ve got about three pairs of Captain America’s shoes in my closet, and he eats half his weight in whole grain cereal every time he’s over here. I don’t even _like_ it, and I still buy it for him.” 

You draw the pillow from the end of the couch into your lap, summoning a smile from somewhere. “He’s got that effect on people.” 

“No kidding.” He stands with a sigh, waving vaguely as he turns towards the hall. “You get some rest.” 

“Sam, I want to level with you, I…” Out of habit and reflex you look up and meet his gaze, and everything freezes up. Everything but your heart seems to have stopped working. _Say it. Just be honest with him._ “I… think you’re a really stand up guy, um, letting me camp out here. It means a lot.” 

He stares at you for a moment, and you feel absolutely sure he knows what you haven’t said, and in a panic you don’t know if that’s your own paranoia or the truth. What would be so bad about him knowing that you’re definitely maybe in love with him? Other than the possibility of ruining one of your closest friendships? _Yeah, what could go wrong?_

“Any time,” Sam says, before heading to his room. 

You wait until you hear the door shut before you put your head in your hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter does actually have a sequel; it's not just a one-shot! Sam's just too much to resist in that way.


	4. Empty My Hands (Sam Wilson) [pt.2]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the sequel to "Definitely Maybe"-- originally there was another one-shot in between them, but I figured I'd just put'em together this time around. Slow Burn: The Movie, feat. Steve Rogers, Captain Unhelpful.

You wake up slow enough that you don’t get to be confused or forget about where you are, although you certainly spend enough time trying to press your face back into Sam Wilson’s couch and wishing you could forget how you got there. Last night’s details are fuzzy but the shape is unmistakable: you had gotten more drunk than you’d intended, crashed here, and probably said some stuff about your feelings that would be embarrassing in the light of day. 

It is time to go home and never bother Sam again. You slowly push yourself upright with a minimum of protest from your stomach or head, although everything seems to hurt a little. It’s all a little too bright and you’d kill for a glass of water. 

Sitting all the way up, you find your phone is dead. Standing up, you find you’re not about to puke. These aren’t ideal conditions, but the more you think about having to face Sam in the light of day, the less you want to stick around. You fold the blanket up and try to set it neatly on the couch next to the pillow, like that’ll make up for anything. 

You pass by the kitchen on your way to the front door, spying your shoes resting by the front mat. It’s probably pointless to keep your steps light, but it might be early enough that he isn’t awake, and you can slip away quietly. 

“Are you sneaking out?” 

“God!” You jump at the voice from the kitchen that is decidedly not Sam, and turn fast to see Steve Rogers at the kitchen table, spoon of whole grain cereal poised between his bowl and his face. “Steve…” 

He gives you his best Big Baby Blues look, half-hurt and half-innocent. “Because it looked like you were trying to sneak out.” He certainly looks at home, in running clothes and not even looking vaguely flushed or ruffled. 

You smooth your rumpled clothes down in a vague attempt at trying to look better, combing your fingers through your hair and trying not to wince at the snags. “I was trying to make an unobtrusive exit, thanks.” 

Steve’s eyebrows quirk and he pretends to be interested in his cereal. “Sam’s on his way back, but if you hurry you should be able to avoid him.” 

Nobody ever really warns you that Captain America can be downright mean sometimes. “I’m not trying to avoid him.” You cross the room to the kitchen to prove your point, although you suspect it’s probably useless. 

Steve chews his cereal thoughtfully, before gesturing at you with his spoon. “Just trying to be unobtrusive.” 

You turn away from him to run some cold water from the sink into your hands and wash your face a little, rinsing some of the grit out of your eyes and spitting the sleep out of your mouth. You pat your face dry with a hand towel and try to think of some way to get him off your back without telling him he’s right. “I’m kind of embarrassed, that’s all. Showing up drunk to a friend’s place isn’t very glamorous or reliable or— or anything a good friend would do.” 

Steve smiles, shaking his head. “You’ve got it _bad_.” 

You frown, twisting the towel between your hands a little, face warming up. “Shut up, Steve.” 

He leans back in his chair with a certain satisfaction, eyes dancing. “Have you told him?” 

“Please don’t make me tell Captain America to shut up twice in one day.” 

“It’s kind of obvious, that’s all I’m saying. Might feel better if you got it off your chest.” 

It sucks that he’s right, but it sucks even more that you just can’t. You couldn’t tell Sam that you were almost definitely in love with him, or at least had a stupid big crush, no matter what. Couldn’t do it drunk, couldn’t do it sober. 

Steve softens a little. “Look, just ask him out on the town. You can do that now, y’know, it’s the twenty-first century. Happens all the time.” 

“Are you seriously—?” Dating advice from a man from the forties, you had officially hit a new and monumental low. “Look, it’s not that easy, it might screw things up.” 

“Might not.” 

You rest a hand on your hip, wishing you knew his middle name for full chiding effect. “What is your investment in this, Steve Rogers?” 

He shrugs, looking smugly casual. “Watching you pine away just seems kinda cruel. Sam’s also a good guy— a great guy, in fact, and you oughta trust that if he doesn’t want to take you out on a date, he’s not going to make things weird between you afterwards.” 

“I don’t have to take this… this _guff_ from you.” 

“No, but you know I’m right.” 

“Eat your gross cereal, Steven.” You turn back around to stare at the sink and endlessly smooth and refold the hand towel. The front door opens and you’re struck with the impulse to run, although there’s no where to run, and the attempt would probably make you puke. 

Sam shuts the door behind him and comes to a stop at the kitchen table, clearly having just come from a run and looking way too handsome for being in sweats. You busy yourself washing your hands for no reason. “I dunno how I feel about you beating me back to my own house, dude.” 

“Well, you’ll just have to run faster next time,” Steve says, sweetly. 

Sam snorts. “Oh, is that all?” 

Getting up from the table, Steve gently elbows you away from the sink so he can wash his bowl out, with a very pointed look. “I’ll get out of your hair, Sam, I don’t want to intrude.” 

The other man makes a thoughtful noise. “That’s new.” 

“Wouldn’t want to be a third wheel,” he muses, and you splash him with water from the faucet out of frustration. “Hey!” 

“Don’t want to wear out your welcome, _Steve_ ,” you mutter, trying and succeeding pretty admirably at keeping a hiss out of your voice. 

He gives you the patented Captain America Isn’t Mad, Just Disappointed look that makes you feel bad for being mean to him, before drying his hands off and heading for the front door. “Uh-huh. I’ll see you later, Sam?” 

“Yeah. Take it easy, Steve.” 

You wait until Steve has shut the door behind him and left before turning around and finally making eye contact with Sam, feeling guilty for having avoided that for so long. He nods at you. “How’re you feeling?” 

“Only slightly like death.” 

He pats the back of Steve’s vacated kitchen chair as an invitation for you to take a seat as he passes by, retrieving two water bottles from the fridge. 

You ease down into the seat and realize that your head had been swimming a little more than you’d originally thought, and that sitting down was a relief. “Is Steve always such a handful?” 

“Part of his charm.” Sam shrugs, like it’s a fact of life, but he keeps his eyes on you as he hands over a blessedly cool bottle of water. He’s quiet for a moment as he cracks the top off of his own and you try not to stare as he drinks. “I’ve been thinkin’ about what you said last night. About backsliding.” 

Your stomach rolls around and then out completely, and you screw your eyes shut for a moment, before forcing them open and the rest of your face to relax. “Are you going to offer me hardcore therapist advice?” 

“Yeah, I’ve got some, if you want it,” he says, softly and carefully. 

You fidget with the cap of the water bottle and look at anywhere but him, despising how anxious and twisted up you feel. This shouldn’t be hard, and you know it’s right, but it’s just treading so close to feelings that you weren’t sure were right or anything he’d want from you. “I… I think I’d like it, Sam, but not from you— and not because I don’t think you wouldn’t have good stuff to say, but it’s just a… it’s a line I don’t want to cross with you.” 

“Any reason why?” 

You force yourself to lean forward onto the table, putting your hands where you can see them and will them to be still, not to betray how nervous you are. “Because I want you to be my friend, not my therapist.” You can hear yourself saying ‘because one day I’m going to be brave and ask you out,’ but saying it is another matter. For today, just this is enough. It’s a relief. 

“I want that too,” Sam says, and you glance up just enough to see his smile before you have to look away. He leans forward, hand touching yours and lifting your gaze back up to meet his out of surprise. “You know what else I want?” 

Your breath catches and then stops all together. “What’s that?” 

He stares at you for a moment, solemnly, before his gaze moves past you and out of the dining area. “I want Steve Rogers to stop eavesdropping.” 

You put your face into your hands and try to calm down as Sam gets up and goes for the front door, Steve calling in from outside. “I left my phone, I’m just coming back for it!” 

“Your shadow was in the doorway, man, what’s Natasha gonna think? Bringing this amateur game first thing in the morning, it’s a damn shame.” Sam snags the forgotten phone off the counter and you listen to him open the door. “Get off my steps. Shoo!” 

A few deep breaths stops your stomach from fluttering as badly with adrenaline and a kind of rueful disappointment, but in a way you’re thankful. Trust Steve’s timing to keep your feet out of your mouth. 

Sam comes back, shaking his head. “I take it back— the being a handful thing? Not part of his charm.” 

You smile, and it is genuine and it feels good. “No kidding.” 

He grins, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder at the door. “You want a ride home?” 

“I would _love_ a ride home.” 

“Alright.” Sam pats the top of your head and you’re practiced at not leaning into it, but his touch stays for a moment, slowing your heart to a few random thuds. His hand drops to your shoulder and squeezes, and you’re suddenly and vividly sure that you both know it’s deliberate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! There'll almost certainly be another chapter to this mini-arc, but it's still in the works. Back to one-shots! Next up is Bruce. As always, thank you for reading!


	5. Vanilla (Bruce Banner)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of the chapters I've had squirreled away, so now it's back to the grindstone! I'm excited to expand this series to touch on stuff like the Netflix series, the X-men movies, etc. For right now, though, just some pleasant Bruce time.

It’s a beautiful morning in New York, the sun barreling in through the plate glass window of the apartment. Blue skies today, the TV is assuring you from the living room, and you try to resist the urge to rest your face on the open can of spaghetti in front of you. The tines of your fork make a scraping noise against the sides and it startles you a little. The TV announces it is seven-thirty in the morning, and you feel whatever’s left of your soul escape. 

You hear the bedroom door open and imagine the way Bruce squints when he first gets up in the morning. You’d love to turn around and see it, but the thought of that much movement makes you even more tired than you were before. 

Crossing the living space to the kitchen, he comes to stop beside you at the countertop, staring briefly at your can of cold spaghetti and meatballs before looking at you. “Is this an unconventional breakfast or a very late dinner?” 

“Time doesn’t apply to graduate students.” To your left and right are notes you don’t fully remember taking, but your hand is cramped enough to attest that that’s how you’ve spent the last twelve hours. Possibly more. “I’m sure you remember.” 

“Well, you never forget.” He sighs. ”Do you want, like… an actual breakfast?” 

You stir the spaghetti around, trying to appear as miserable as possible. “I think my body would reject real food at this point.” 

Bruce makes a humming noise of assent, and presses a kiss to your temple. “Take care of yourself, please. Or I’ll be forced to, and we both know that would be a disaster.” 

“But you’re a doctor,” you smile, resting your head on his shoulder and then letting it loll as he moves away towards the coffeemaker. 

“Okay,” he says, pleasantly. “Then, as a doctor, my official advice is for you to go get some sleep.” 

“Gotta finish my spaghetti.” You yawn, extensively, gesturing half-heartedly to the open can. 

“You’re going to fall asleep in it before you finish.” 

“A risk I am willing to take.” 

He takes a last glance at the coffeemaker to make sure it’s churning along alright, before moving around the end of the counter back towards you. “Mm, I’m not.” 

You’re used to being picked up like you don’t weigh a thing, so you it doesn’t startle you when Bruce curls his arms around you and picks you right off the stool, already turning back towards the bedroom. 

“Okay, no, but, wait— wait—” You flail enough to convince him to pause, if not put you down. “If I just stay up a little longer, and transcribe all the work I did last night—" 

Bruce smiles fondly. “Not a chance.” 

“You’re so hard to argue with!” You go limp in a dramatic fashion, and he laughs. 

It’s still dim in the bedroom, and the sheets are warm and rumpled where the two of you collapse, although Bruce keeps himself propped up, apparently planning to leave. You shut your eyes and run your hands over his face, stubble prickling your palms as he smiles. 

Your relief at finally being in bed is matched by a desire to stay exactly as you are, specifically with Bruce. His weight is warm and heavy, and you card your fingers through his hair as he leans down to kiss you, his morning breath as bad as your spaghetti breath. Your hands slide to his shoulders as he pulls back after what feels like too short of a time. “Why don’t you stay?” 

Amused, Bruce sits up, his voice still the low murmur that stays just between you two. “Because the coffee’s ready.” 

“Hurry back, then.” 

“You’re gonna be asleep by the time I come back.” He pulls the blankets up over your knees before padding back towards the door, leaving it ajar. 

You snort, arranging yourself seductively against the pillows. “I am _not_.” 

You are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The issuer of this challenge requested a Rhodey chapter next, so that's going to be up next, in all likelihood! As always, thank you for reading! :)


	6. Confident (James Rhodes)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The issuer of this challenge actually requested a Rhodey chapter and I was so happy to have some impetus to get into gear and write him! You know what that War Machine suit is made out of? _Husband material._

Tony stays for dinner, but heads off before it comes time to load up the dishwasher. You get two kisses on either cheek, and Rhodey gets a hug just long enough to be genuine, and then just long enough to be a joke. Tony rides off into the night with a carefully carefree _Text me, platypus!_ and the apartment seems suddenly quiet without him in it. 

Pleasantly so, in your opinion. His intensely calculated friendliness and general energy have always made you appreciate the more peaceful space after. That quiet wake was where you’d found Rhodey: because he had still been Rhodey to you, back then. He was Jim with you now, pretty much only with you. But he’d always be Rhodey for Tony, who— after he’d been reassured more than a few times that you weren’t out to steal his best friend away— had warmed up to you considerably, and you could all have a nice dinner together like three functioning adults. 

His phone vibrates and he pauses by the kitchen table to check it, looking half-amused at what’s undoubtedly already a text from Tony. “One day, he’s going to clean up after himself, and I’m going to be there to see it.” 

You pause by him with both hands full of plates to press a quick kiss to the side of his mouth. “Don’t hold your breath.” 

The dishwasher loads quickly with two people working at it, and dinner is cleaned up before you know it. The nightly news is replaying again for the late night crowd and you both end up on the couch in front of it, although you couldn’t have said what any of it was about. 

Jim seems equally uninterested, splitting the last of the wine between the two of you and staring at the TV screen anyway. You could watch him watch paint dry, honestly. He’s like a carved statue, and a hundred other metaphors you could go into at length, being tired and in the possession of wine. 

And although he’s got a solemn resting face, but you know him well enough to know when there’s more to it. It’s something in the set of his jaw and how his blinking slows down. 

You reach out to tap a finger against his chest, gently. “You’re worried about something.” 

Shifting out of his own thoughts is quick and reflexive for him, and the subtle force of Jim’s smile as he turns to you is almost enough to distract you. “I’m always worried about something.” 

“No, I mean like, forefront of the mind worrying.” 

He considers that for a moment, thoughtful as ever. “Active, as opposed to passive?” 

“Yeah. Anything you want to talk about?” You wait, before rephrasing. “Anything you can talk about?” Practice keeps too much emphasis out of your voice. Sometimes orders keep your mouth shut, sometimes your own feelings do. No point in adding any more pressure onto him. 

You watch him marshal his thoughts, but when he speaks it’s with that practiced cadence of a public speaker, a familiarity with the words and ideas that betray how long he’s been bothered by it. “The last two times the Earth’s been in mortal danger, we barely scraped by. We got lucky, with the incident in New York— if taking out the command ships hadn’t cut their signal, we would’ve had a very different Manhattan to clean up. Irresponsible science created Ultron, and again, we got lucky when more irresponsible science got us out of it. That was with the old guard, _veterans_. People who handle crises on their free time, when they aren’t saving the world. These new guys…” He shakes his head. “They’re my team now, I shouldn’t express a lack of confidence in them.” 

God, and here you’d been ready to bet he was fretting over whether or not Tony would have a good support network outside of the Avengers. Talk about off the mark. “What do you feel like? The old guard, or the new guys?” 

“Wish I knew.” Jim’s always had a talent for staring and looking at nothing, like there’s something in the middle distance he’s trying to make out. “I can’t discount the thought that they might just want another suit, now that Tony’s attempting to stay out of trouble.” 

You seal your jaw shut against the first impulse you have, which is to snap at him, and try to keep yourself sounding more amused than anything else. “Are you saying you don’t feel as qualified for the job as a three-month-old with a cosmic jewel in his forehead?” 

He gives you the same look that you get whenever you swear in good company, the _I know you can take this seriously_ face. Joke’s on him, though, because you are. Pressing your glass against your temple briefly, you shut your eyes for a moment. Jim is very still and waits for you to look at him. “Do you want a non-professional-hero opinion?” 

“I’d love it.” 

“I think next time I hear you suggest that they value the suit more than they value you, you’d better be joking, _James._ I’m kind of angry on your behalf that you’d devalue your own experiences and personal qualities in the face of a fancy tin can.” You smile as you take a sip of your drink, but it feels predatory. “You were ready to be a main roster Avenger before the suit. _Way_ before.” 

He doesn’t look shocked to hear this, and you know he’s probably thought about it before— he’s not a guy that devalues himself quickly. You can’t, not after a lifetime of service, not after needing to be everyone’s rock, but that’s what makes you so fast on the draw to remind him of it. You’ll fight anyone who tries to tell James Rhodes he hasn’t earned respect, even himself. 

“Well, when you put it like that.” His smile is thin, like he’s not entirely sure you aren’t legitimately angry with him. “I’m still going to talk to Steve. There’s a lot of wild cards, but we should be able to work on being a team before anything major happens.” 

You reach out to play with the still-starched point of his shirt’s collar. “Yeah. Do some trust falls.” Now _there_ was an image. 

Jim takes your hand and folds it up in his own, looking just earnestly apologetic enough for you to know he’s joking. “I hope you’re not too mad at me.” 

“I could be persuaded back to good humor.” You finish off the last of your drink and lean forward to set the glass on the coffee table, before leaning up a lot closer to him. “That wasn’t too harsh of me, was it?” 

“No,” he says, simply. You lean into his oncoming kiss and get lost in the smell of his cologne. “I liked it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anything happens to Rhodey in Civil War, I'm gonna come unglued. I'm stressed just thinking about it. Brrr. 
> 
> In other news, I'm going to try and mostly keep these one-shots around this length, so I don't get intimidated and slow down with writing again. I mean, I say that, but there's never going to be any kind of concrete, set length. As soon as I set one, I'll just break it in one way or another. Let's be real. In any case, thank you for reading!


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